The Matt Drake Series Books: 7-9 (The Matt Drake Series Boxset 2)

by David Leadbeater

  “I will be with you shortly,” a voice that clearly belonged to a well-manicured, well-educated man spoke out. “But first, won’t you join me in a toast to celebrate the passing of the old regime and the beginning of the new?”

  The villagers thought they understood. A drink to represent the house’s upcoming demolition. What a good idea, they thought. Many poured wine and champagne, fruit juice and glasses of water. They were about to meet their benefactor, a symbol of their future, a man that would now be inextricably entwined with the name and renown of the place where they were raised.

  As one, persuaded by the promises of the unseen man, the attending township raised glasses to their lips and drank.

  After a while only the cries of babies remained.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tyler Webb, a weapons billionaire well on his way to establishing his own notorious, murderous and immensely powerful secret order, studied the faces of the men and women seated around him.

  “We are the Pythians,” he said. “What news today?”

  Before anyone could speak he flicked a glance sideways, taking in the spectacular view offered through the trees by the eternal falls, never changing, all enduring. In a way, he hoped his new secret order might go the same way. Conversely, thinking of the time when he grew too old to manage and lead it forward anymore, he already felt a pang of jealousy toward the nameless figure that might.

  General Bill Stone of the US Army spoke up. “The ‘house on the hill’ scenario has played out. We have announced our presence in the United States. We have announced our resolute intentions and the gravity of our actions. We have an army—recruited around the world and being deployed as we speak, and,” he paused, “our first foray, the Pandora plague, is underway. We are starting to mobilize. Three sites have now been identified—London, Paris and Los Angeles—”

  “Wait,” Nicholas Bell, owner of one of the world’s biggest construction companies, and least liked of the Pythians, interrupted the general. “I was the only one here that stood opposed to the ‘house’ operation. I’d like to know the true depths of what we wrought.”

  General Stone hesitated, clearly unwilling to articulate and unused to being disrupted mid-flow. Tyler Webb stepped in smoothly.

  “My friend, my friend,” he addressed Bell. “The Pythians do not discuss the trivialities of who lived and who died. Of how many. We set our path to ultimate power in motion and will not be deterred. The so-called innocents will die to facilitate our rise. That,” he spread his hands magnanimously, “is how it should be.”

  Webb noticed that Bell looked a little sickened before he turned away, nodding amicably. His immediate thought was to bring the man closer, much closer. “Nicholas, why don’t you move to DC for a time? Bill is the architect of both the ‘house’ and Pandora projects. If you were closer to him you might be better able to affect the plans.”

  His manipulation worked. Nicholas Bell, the rough multi-millionaire builder, nodded, seemingly appeased.

  Immediately, one of his other minion-associates, Clifford Bay-Dale, the energy boss and the man nobody liked, raised his voice. “And my own project is next, I’m sure?”

  Webb nodded slightly. “The lost kingdom sounds intriguing, my friend. We will table your presentation as soon as Pandora shows success.”

  “What about my galleons?” Miranda Le Brun asked, the jaded oil-heiress finally showing a spark of interest.

  “In good time.” Webb smiled. “Your enthusiasm for our battle suffuses me with delight. We will all have our day, to the cost of the poorer world, until the pinnacle of our desires can be found. It will all end, one day, with Le Comte de Saint Germain.”

  The interest he saw in the eyes of his collaborators gave him a rush of almost sexual desire. They didn’t know the full plan yet. Only he, the great Tyler Webb and nano-weapon expert, knew that.

  General Stone, he noticed, didn’t look at all pleased at the prospect of hosting the somewhat uncouth construction magnate in his home town. Not a single protest issued forth though, a testament to the general’s iron discipline and willingness to bow to the man in charge.

  “How goes it with the second- and third-degree members?” Webb asked.

  “Kendra Nelson,” Robert Norris, executive of SolDyn, said. “Is on board. A second-degree asset that, I have hopes, may be groomed one day to rise to first degree.”

  Webb frowned. “We will never have more than six first-degree members.”

  Norris also smiled. “I know.”

  Webb took his meaning and fought hard to keep his mouth from broadening into a grin. Plans were afoot, layer upon layer; the intrigue and insider play was good.

  “Alex Berdal,” Miranda said. “Third degree.”

  “Zoe Sheers,” Bell added. “First degree.”

  Webb urged himself to triple check that last offering. He nodded and added one more name to the list. “Lucas Monroe,” he said. “First degree. Primary.”

  They all stared at him, perhaps wondering why his nomination should be the primary, perhaps wishing they were his equal, but only Nicholas Bell spoke up in that crass way of his.

  “What friggin’ reason do you have to offer Monroe as a primary?”

  Webb ignored the question so completely it surprised the entire room. “On to our final item of business.” He eyed the falls again, conjuring the image of a diverting evening planning some random unfortunate’s demise over a bottle of expensive brandy, a Sony laptop, a bevy of criminals and a wealth of technology, whilst sitting before the great floor-length window in his bedroom with the spectacular real-life cascade as his hanging picture, his muse. His latest stalking victim was a blond couple from Missouri, innocent, fresh, just starting out in life. His pleasure would be to personally destroy them.

  “How comes the factory?”

  Again Bill Stone answered, this being his project. “Prepared but not yet operational. Some of the more . . . sensitive . . . items and staff are taking a little, um, procuring.”

  “By any means,” Webb told him. “Make it happen.”

  “That is my maxim, sir. Our main obstacle is its obscure location. Greece isn’t the easiest place in the world to recruit from, no matter the means you use.”

  “Understood. There is still time before we’re able to advance with the plague pits. But use your time well, Bill, for once we hit the ‘go’ button—nothing on earth should be able to stop us.”

  “For now,” Bay-Dale sniggered, his visage and conduct like that of a sneaking rat, a cowardly bully. “Let us revel in the outcome of the ‘house’ project and what fear it has wrought among our enemies, our subjects and even among our associates.”

  “The Pythians have arrived.” Webb lifted a glass of red wine, fully aware of its symbolic representation to his associates in the matter of how the villagers had been poisoned. “A toast.”

  They drank.

  They filed out.

  “We will meet again very soon,” Webb told them in parting. “For the official launch of our first real project. Before we own this world and all its sins, we will set it alight.”

  The converted nodded to him.

  “A pyre for our pleasure.”

  “To raise a new empire,” Stone said. “You must first burn the old one to the ground. History has taught us that.”

  Webb placed a hand on the general’s solid shoulder. “The fires have already begun, my friend. And they are unstoppable.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Matt Drake leaned forward and reached out a hand, tentatively, questioningly, wondering if he were about to die.

  Komodo handed the soft, dumpy object to him.

  Drake sniffed at it carefully. Mai rolled her eyes. “What? Do you think it’s about to explode?”

  Drake looked non-committal. “Dunno, love. It’s a bacon sandwich made by an ex-Delta soldier, an American, in Washington DC, inside the Pentagon. How can anything good come of that?”

  “Yorkshire isn’t the only place that makes a goo
d sarnie,” Karin spoke up in defense of her beau. “T-vor here can make ‘em just as good. Go on. Try it.”

  Drake laid the bread on the table, beside the local steak sauce and a proper bottle of HP. “It just . . . doesn’t feel right.”

  “For God’s sake,” Dahl exclaimed. “Eat it or I’ll stuff the bloody thing down your throat.”

  Drake felt his lips turn sharply upward. It was good to get the entire team back together, especially since they weren’t in any immediate danger or about to undertake a deadly operation. Lately, they had been hopping from one danger to the next. But now . . . two weeks had passed since the demise of his greatest nemesis. The gods had seen fit to reward their success with some much deserved downtime.

  Still, shadows were never far from their hearts and minds. Mai remained distant, focused on some past terrible deed and occupied full-time with Grace’s welfare, as if she owed the young girl more than she could ever repay. Deep grieving mode returned to haunt them all at various parts of the day as they were reminded of loved ones they had recently lost. Indeed, Drake and everyone else experienced a form of guilt at not thinking of Ben Blake or Romero or Jonathon Gates in the passing of an entire afternoon. The life of a survivor was never an easy passage.

  Drake bit into the sandwich, savoring the taste of the crispy bacon with its accompaniment of brown sauce. “Not bad,” he murmured. “Not bad at all.”

  “Coming from a real Yorkshireman,” Karin said, “that’s high praise.”

  Komodo proceeded to hand out a tray of sandwiches and bottles of water, their first food inside their all-but-impregnable latest HQ. Provided by the new Secretary of Defense—Robert Price—the large, well-equipped office inside the Pentagon was just what they needed at this point. The SPEAR team had been bombed, assaulted, wounded and torn apart. Two weeks convalescing and quietly occupied with learning the ins and outs of a new routine was more than a soothing balm, it was a major part of the healing process.

  Of course, the team wasn’t complete. Not without Alicia Myles. Drake ranked her absence as dangerous to all mankind—not just because of the person she was but for the simple fact that she had never once slowed down, never mourned, never departed from the long, well-travelled road to allow time and losses and circumstance to catch up.

  The time was coming when it would, and the outfall from that particular nuclear explosion would taint them all.

  Drake finished his sandwich and turned to Mai, attempting again to engage at least a part of her interest. “Any news on Grace?”

  “Nothing yet.” The unknown seventeen-year-old that Mai had rescued from a terrible captivity had been called to a meeting with investigators today. Maybe they had unearthed something from her past. Drake hoped so. Mai had wanted to accompany Grace, but the child, independent, angry and guarded to the last, had insisted she go alone. This was part of her past and her future, part of growing up and moving on.

  What else haunts you, Mai? he wanted to ask. All he knew was that Mai believed she had murdered a man that worked in part for the Triad, and that the memory was tearing her apart. In the words of those that often felt responsible for deeds beyond their control: Blame all your life on me.

  With no more information coming and, judging by his girlfriend’s face, no more about to be offered any time soon, Drake turned his mind to happier thoughts. Hayden Jaye, wounded in the final battle with the Blood King, had healed well and was now back up to full strength—if a little sore. One of the main reasons that she had recuperated so quickly sat beside her now—the Hawaiian mountain—Mano Kinimaka. With a sandwich in each hand and an eye to his colleagues, Kinimaka failed to notice the sauce slipping out from the bread. But Mano was used to accidents.

  At the back of the large room, Smyth leaned against the wall, a cantankerous look stretched across his features. Drake knew the man well enough by now to know that didn’t necessarily mean he was in a bad mood; it was a sign that all was well in the land of Smyth and could even mean he was daydreaming about the Easter Bunny.

  Hayden, reinstated as leader of their elite group, called the meeting to order. “I hope you’ve all had a good rest because the devils of this world won’t stay inert for long, and already we’re seeing the beginnings of new troubles. Not with us today are Yorgi—the suits don’t want to issue a Pentagon pass to an ex-Russian thief and jailbird—and Lauren, who has undertaken a mission for Mano, more of which I’ll explain some other time.”

  “Why?” Smyth asked touchily. “Why not now?”

  Hayden stared. “Because the nature of the job she performs for us is somewhat delicate, and if it doesn’t pan out, then it will remain undisclosed.”

  Smyth snapped his mouth shut. Kinimaka cleared his throat. “You do well to keep quiet, Smyth. Even I don’t know what she means.”

  Smyth looked unconvinced. Hayden continued, “With the final demise of Coyote we believe all remaining threats of the Blood King’s vendetta against us and our families have passed. I guess you could call this a new era, even a new beginning. Now, before concentrating their efforts on Coyote, Drake and Mai travelled to Russia, chiefly to Zoya’s abode.”

  “The crazy grandma,” Kinimaka put in.

  “The best footballer in Russia,” Drake added.

  Hayden took a breath. “Anyway, in addition to their findings relating to the Ninth Division and Coyote’s identity, they instructed us to smuggle out as much of the woman’s treasure pile as we were able. That included relics and artefacts which we haven’t yet been able to identify, in addition to dossiers of information on a treasure trove hidden by crusaders, a lost kingdom, and this new group—the Pythians. Zoya appears to have collected a wealth of information and dirt on just about everything, and the worst of her labors will bear our team the best fruit for years to come.”

  “Do we have any credible threats?” Smyth asked, as if trying to make Hayden come to the point.

  “They’re all credible,” Hayden answered. “We recovered enough information on the Thule Society to keep two analysts busy for a month. The problem comes in deciding which one needs our attention most.”

  “The Thule Society?” Kinimaka asked.

  “A German occultist group and secret society within the Nazi party. Their ancient myth research arm, if you will. They were even named after a mythical country from Greek legend and spent millions of Reichsmarks and countless lives searching for places such as Atlantis, Mu, Hyperborea and other lost civilizations that they believed might hold the origins of the Aryan race. Members included people such as Rudolf Hess, Hans Frank, Goring, Himmler and, probably, Hitler.”

  The Hawaiian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess they were serious about their lost kingdoms.”

  “They were more serious about their Aryan origins. But are they the prime threat here today or tomorrow? I think not.”

  Dahl shifted in his seat. “I’m guessing you have more than just idle speculation on that front.”

  Drake held up a hand. “In the Queen’s English he means ‘which one?’ ”

  Dahl furrowed his rows. “Since when did the Queen come from bloody Yorkshire?”

  “Since your wife came to DC, started keeping you up all night, and turned you into a whipping boy.”

  Dahl rounded on Drake. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business!”

  “You’re not denying it then.”

  Dahl gritted his teeth. Hayden intervened. “In answer to both questions—yes. We’re taking the Pythians most seriously. In fact, more seriously than any other threat in recent memory.”

  That made Drake do a double take. “What? Why?”

  “We already know they’re recruiting big. Trying to make a name for themselves. Not interested in staying secret. They’re the new breed, the very real face of terror that no longer wants to hide behind a mask. But we don’t believe they’re terrorists as such, they’re power-mongers, intent on pulling the strings that make the world turn. We gathered as much from Zoya’s notes and the interrogatio
ns of mercenaries rejected or hired by their network. We know they have unlimited funds, government-level resources and leverage the like of which we’ve never seen, not even with Kovalenko. We know they’re searching into the legend of Pandora, though in what way we can only guess. Maybe it all leads toward this ‘greatest mystery of all time’.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily make them more dangerous than the next bunch of crazies on our list,” Mai said gently.

  Hayden nodded. “Yesterday I would have said ‘you’re right’. But then . . . this.” She hung her head and flicked a controller at the TV screen, saying no more.

  Drake watched a news report from the Fox channel, the coverage restricted to events that had transpired in a small, secluded town in mid-America. In one afternoon, 90 percent of the admittedly small population had been poisoned. Men, women, children. All attending some kind of celebration, all dead within minutes of ingesting a deadly liquid.

  When it ended, Drake turned to Hayden. “It’s horrifying, but I can’t see how it relates to our secret organization trying to rule the world. Was one of the dead a Pythian? Did they find something in his house?”

  Hayden shook her head. “No. The Pythians claimed responsibility for the killings.”

  Drake was speechless. One look around the room told him the rest of the team shared similar feelings of disbelief.

  “To what end?” Dahl asked. “What could they possibly gain from such slaughter?”

  “Notoriety,” Hayden said quietly. “A deadly status. Their intentions and the depths they will sink to have been clearly defined. We don’t know if they’re home-grown or foreign but they’re now on everyone’s radar. Following this and threats in many countries, the Pythians have quickly become world enemy number one.”

  “And they already have an army,” Drake recalled. “Christ, if this is their opening performance what’s their first act gonna be like?”